by Karen Kay
War Cloud came up onto his elbows that he might have a better look at her. So much prettier was this undergarment than the ugly brown thing, he began to wonder why she wore the outer dress. Was she trying to make herself unattractive?
But she moved at that moment and his thoughts ceased. He watched her graceful motions as she took hold of the ugly creation, washed it and hung it on a bush.
Maybe he would steal it away from her. The impish urge was almost uncontrollable.
He did, however, control the impulse. She stood up and in response, he sat up at attention. He saw that she scrutinized her environment, as though she suspected that someone watched her, but when she seemed to find nothing, she untied the ribbons that held her skirts in place and slipped them over her head.
If he had hoped to see her naked as a result, he was to be extremely disappointed. She wore an even odder-looking garment beneath this.
War Cloud shook his head. How could one woman wear all these clothes out here on the hot prairie?
This garment, though not a skirt, nor even leggings, was ruffled with lace and ribbons around the legs. The thing more resembled the white man’s pants than some other article of clothing, although not quite…
And though this thing, too, was much more comely than the ugly brown dress, he could not help but observe that this woman would be most uncomfortable in it, particularly under the Kansas heat. This garment she slipped off as well.
Yet, still, to his astonishment, she was not naked. Beneath this she wore another piece of clothing, this one hugging her curves with ties all the way down the front of the thing to her waist. It was only then that he realized how tightly this woman was bound.
She struggled with those wrappings, and one moment followed upon another as War Cloud watched in utter amazement. Briefly he wondered if he should come to her assistance.
However, once again, he decided against it. If he made his presence known to her now, it would embarrass her, and the disrobing would surely cease, and, though it might be so very wrong of him, he did not think he was quite ready for the display to end…at least not yet.
He watched as she labored with the knots on that ridiculously tight-fitting vestlike thing, watched as the article came loose and she threw it aside, her hands and fingers coming up to rub at her waist and middle as though the circulation there had stopped. And in fact, maybe it had.
Yet there was still another garment beneath this one, this next piece of clothing being in the shape of a slip. Now, this was the kind of dress War Cloud was accustomed to seeing on women, although Anna’s was more flimsy than the cloth dresses worn by the southern Cheyennes.
Gazing at Anna, he could not help but think how much better she looked in such a simple article of clothing, without all the trappings of her civilization.
He held his breath as he watched her fingers come to the fastening of this dress. Would she take this one off, too?
It appeared that she might. With a hasty study of her surroundings, she undid the bindings that held the dress in place. She slipped the garment off, and he watched as she stood before him the very way in which she had come into this world.
Unwillingly a very male part of him, which had already been awakening, made its presence more than well known.
Her breasts might be small, he thought, her hips tiny and her waist even more infinitesimal still, but she was all feminine curves and valleys, and when she reached up to release her hair, the brownish tresses of her locks fell straight to her waist. He shivered.
Beads of perspiration had been accumulating along his upper lip and he suddenly felt the need for a cold bath.
He should look away, do something else, make his presence known to her. Something, anything. He knew it.
He did nothing.
Lust. Lust was his reaction to this display, and he had best control that urge. A man should not spy on a woman who was not his wife in this way. And yet, she had as good as offered herself to him.
He reminded himself that he did not intend to take her offer to heart. He could not. While he might be willing to use her to break the curse—and in so doing, help her across the prairie—that was the extent of his concern for her.
Wasn’t it?
If that were the case, however, and in light of his resolutions, then what was he doing watching her? How could he justify it?
He could not, he decided.
Still, he did not look away.
It did enter his head to wonder how this woman could have ever reached maturity without realizing that she was attractive. If not beautiful in the traditional sense, there was still much about her to lure a man to passion. He wondered how she might appear if she ever tried to make herself pretty.
Was it possible that she could be a beauty? Maybe.
But it little mattered. Given the goodness of her heart, she would make some man a good wife.
He was not, however, that man. He could never be.
As he watched her, the morning sun chose that moment to shine directly onto her hair, adding to it a shimmer of gold. It was a rare occasion, indeed, when War Cloud beheld that hair color on another human being and he found himself unable to look away from her.
If the truth be known, he never let his eyes stray from her until she had finished her bath. He watched as she reached up to wash her hair, observed as she scrubbed herself with the sand from the stream. And all the while he surveyed her, he thought he might go quietly out of his mind.
As soon as she finished, he was going to take a swim in that same cool water, he told himself.
So enchanted was he by her that it came as a surprise when he heard the sounds of horses.
He put his ear to the ground, listening. Trouble.
He sat up slowly, casting a look in all directions, that he might determine the direction of the riders. But he could see nothing.
He was going to have to warn the woman and the others. He would also have to prepare them, as quickly as possible, to face an enemy and, realizing he could delay no more, he stood up, away from his cover.
His eyes met hers as he did so and, as he stared at her all over again, he knew a moment of regret, for he had enjoyed her beauty…
Chapter Eleven
He caught her gaze, took note of her startled glance, which quickly turned to anger, yet by a series of signs, he told her to seek cover. She started to speak to him, mayhap to scream, but he cautioned her to silence.
Then he crept to where Lame Bird was supposed to be keeping watch.
“Saaa.” He let out his breath. The boy was asleep. No wonder his brother had not raised the alarm.
War Cloud once more put his ear to the ground, listening, trying to determine where the riders might first appear. At last he lifted his head, stared at his young brother—who had come suddenly awake—and by a series of signs, told Lame Bird that there were Indian ponies coming this way; four of them.
There was no need to mention as well that no matter whether the Indians were from an allied or an enemy tribe, if the two of them were found with these white people, there would be trouble.
“What is it?”
The white woman knelt down to his side. Her hair, wet from her bath, fell to her waist and a few locks of it caught against his arm, causing shivers to run over his skin.
She must have hurriedly dressed as well, he surmised, for the only clothing she had pulled on was that one slip he had glimpsed earlier upon her; that and one skirt. She held the ugly brown thing in her hand, as though ready to pull it over her head, but he cautioned her not to do it, to remain still. But whether he took this action for their safety or because he disliked that brown thing, he spared no time to consider.
Using only signs, she asked again, “What is it?”
He gestured back in the same manner, “Four Indian ponies are approaching. Let us hope they have not picked up our trail.”
When she started to pull the dress on again, he reached out and restrained her.
“Go and prepare t
he children to run for shelter if the need arises,” he signed. “Keep them quiet. No moving, no whispering. Complete silence.”
Snapping her right hand in the air, the index finger coming down at the same time—the sign of agreement—she moved off to find the children.
The riders came in sight; four Indians. They appeared to be Cheyenne, though War Cloud reserved judgment. Although their clothing appeared to be Cheyenne, it was odd because he did not recognize them, and he should have, if they were Cheyenne. Perhaps they were from an allied tribe, the Arapaho?
Good manners would demand that War Cloud stand up and reveal his presence, yet instinct and perhaps some suspicion made him hold back. He would be sure.
That was when he heard the four of them speak, and he congratulated himself on his good judgment. These were no Cheyennes or Arapahos.
These were Pawnee, most likely. Cavalry scouts masquerading as Cheyenne.
The Indians dismounted and led their horses toward the water, letting the animals drink to their fill. War Cloud watched them without looking at them too closely, knowing that an intense regard would cause them to “feel” the eyes of another upon them.
If these men were cavalry scouts, he reasoned, then they were out hunting his own people. Duty demanded that he should kill them while he could.
However, that action might be more suicidal than brave, for he did not know how many more of the warrior-whites were in their rear. Better he remain alive to warn his people than to die an honorable, yet useless death.
Again, placing his ear to the ground, War Cloud listened. But he could ascertain nothing. If there were soldier behind these men, he could not hear them.
What were his options?
He and his brother could attack—always a good plan—but if they were killed, the woman and her children would die, if not at the hands of the Pawnee scouts, then from exposure or from some other wandering war party. If he held back, he would have to warn his people that Pawnee scouts had been spotted so close to their country. It meant he would have to take the woman and her children into the camp.
Impossible.
A child’s scream split the air, interrupting his thoughts.
Damn! His cover blown, War Cloud acted at once; his senses, his body, trained all his life for combat such as this.
Swish!
His arrow found its mark; one Pawnee fell. He sent another arrow hurling through the air almost at the same time, but it met with nothing. The other three of the enemy had been alerted and sought cover too swiftly.
As quickly as the first man fell to the ground, the horses shrieked and reared, stampeding back in the same direction they had come.
“Damn!” War Cloud cursed again. Those horses would alert any party that was attached to these scouts that there was trouble.
A movement in the bushes alerted War Cloud to danger and he sent another arrow whizzing toward that place.
Thud! He heard a groan, saw a man fall.
Lame Bird crouched down beside him, and War Cloud gestured the boy to move off to his left where the grass grew tall. So far the enemy did not know who it was they fought, nor exactly where they hid.
Then it happened. The two remaining enemy arose in a combined effort and simultaneously scrambled back up the cliff’s grade, scratching their way upward toward the prairie. Abruptly, they were too far away for an arrow; too distant for him to use his shotgun.
There was nothing else for it. He could not allow those two to rejoin a greater force.
Taking care to keep his cover, War Cloud moved forward, following these men, but when the two did not turn to fight, he gave it up and, splashing into the water, swiftly forded the stream, following after the runaways.
He clawed his way up the incline and, once on the level prairie, sprinted after the two, hoping he could outrun them. Still, they kept their distance, retreating fast.
Dashing across the prairie as fast as he could, War Cloud sped toward them, but he could not catch them. He did, however, manage to capture one of their horses. Grabbing hold of the animal, he jumped onto it and made a clean dash after the two, who were, luckily for him, still afoot.
The end came quickly for one, that one being no match for a mounted, Cheyenne warrior. The other, however, would not give up so easily, and when War Cloud delivered what should have been a fatal knife-thrust, the man leapt onto him and pulled him from the horse.
Though stunned, War Cloud recovered rapidly enough and, grasping hold of his knife, lunged at the brave. But the Pawnee now held the upper hand, being armed with saber as well as knife, and no sooner had the fight begun when the Pawnee took the offense.
War Cloud darted one stab at him, another, then remembering a move that had once won him a fight, he jumped up in the air, stretching out both legs at the same time. He kicked his opponent as hard as he could.
The fellow, dazed by such a move, went down, but was back on his feet before War Cloud could finish the fight. War Cloud managed to kick the saber out of the man’s hands at least, sending it out of reach, which caused the odds to be fairer.
The two men, on their feet, circled one another. One jab followed another, joined by another, still to no effect.
Without warning the Pawnee executed a lunge, grabbing hold of War Cloud and throwing him down. War Cloud made a desperate attempt to stop the downward motion of the man’s knife, held that arm imprisoned in the air, straining…He almost had it…
A gun fired, and the Pawnee, surprise mirrored on his face, went stiff in War Cloud’s grasp.
Realizing what had happened, War Cloud threw the man off him, and none too gently, either. As he leapt to his feet, anger shot through him.
“Who did that?” he asked in English before he’d had a chance to glance behind him. When he did so, he noted the alert poise of his brother, the woman, Anna, beside him, the gun in her hand and the shock of what she had done on her face.
He did not need an answer. Instead he asked another question. “Why did you not let me finish the fight? You killed him.”
“He was going to murder you,” came the female response.
“I was winning.”
“I didn’t see it that way,” she countered.
“Saaaa.” Outrage stirred within him as he let out a breath, perhaps in an attempt to release some of his anger. It did not work. He trod right up to her, each step toward her a threat. He said, “You are not to interfere again, do you understand? When a man fights, it is to be a fair fight to the death. Anything else is a dishonor. Now, come help me turn these men facedown.”
Although Lame Bird made a move to help him, the woman stood rooted, questioning, “Why?”
He sighed, annoyed. “Because it is bad luck to keep these men facing the sun.”
“No, I didn’t mean that.” She paused a mere beat. “You didn’t turn the men over at the train fight.”
“Those men were white,” he answered. “I did not care how their bodies were left.”
He fingered the scalp lock of one of the dead Pawnee and unexpectedly heard the woman shriek. He glanced up at her, observing that she held her hand to her breast as though she were having difficulty breathing. She said, “You…you’re not going to…to scalp these men…are you?”
“Hova’ahane.” He threw the dead Pawnee’s head back down to the ground, scalp lock still intact. Rising, he commented, “What good is a trophy when there is not one of my people here to sing its glory? Besides, you have brought dishonor to me today. I would have finished the fight fairly.”
He watched her bristle. “And I, sir, would have my children safe,” she declared, while she placed her hands on her waist as if to emphasize her words. However, the action gave emphasis to her small bone structure. It also caused War Cloud to note that not only had she discarded that ugly contraption of brown, this new piece of clothing complemented her in a way the brown dress never could have. She continued, “I did what I had to do. I saved your life that you might save ours. Perhaps now we are even.
I no longer owe you my life.”
He said nothing, his lack of response his acknowledgment.
Bending, he turned one of the men facedown, and straightening back up, he said both to her and his brother, “We will need to leave camp immediately. The warrior-whites cannot be far behind these scouts.”
His brother nodded, while the woman said, “I will go and prepare the children.”
War Cloud tried to rein in his reaction to this calm, logical statement, but he did so in vain. She had dishonored him on the field of battle, and this, combined with the aftereffects of combat, caused him to round on her. He said, “Go prepare the children, as well you should. It is this that you should have been doing from the start of the trouble. What would you have done if the Pawnee had won this fight? And you out here instead of hiding yourself with the children? Do you not know that your duty, when there is a fight, is to take the children and flee to safety? What good is it for me to fight if you get yourself killed?”
She raised that chin of hers straight up in the air and she countered, “What good are you to me dead?”
“You would at least be alive, and that is the point.”
“But I would not survive without you to guide me.”
Inwardly he cautioned himself to remain calm, yet for all his good intentions, he found himself closing what little distance remained between them, where he drew his face close to her face, menace in his tone, although his voice was barely over a whisper. He hissed, “You would survive. Do not doubt it. Yours is not a faint heart, that you would bow to death so easily. No, if there is another fight, I would have you know from here, now, until the end of our journey, you are to take the children and flee to safety. That is your duty. Do you understand?”
Her eyes spit fire, but she nodded, if a quick jerk of her head could be called a nod. She started to argue, saying, “But—”
“I will not debate this with you further. Do not cross me again. Now, go see to the children.”
